A Lapse In Judgement
by ArkadyRose
Summary: Dr Watson is summoned to Baker Street late one night, to find Holmes lying dead on the floor. Thus begins a nightmare for the poor doctor in which he will come to doubt everything he has ever known.
1. Chapter 1

It was three months after the wedding that Inspector Lestrade came to call upon me in my consulting room at Cavendish Place. The visit was not without precedent; Lestrade had had occasion to request my services as a professional witness on a number of recent cases since I had left the rooms I had formerly shared with my esteemed friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes. Holmes himself had been engaged in a number of cases both within London and further abroad in the first six to eight weeks after we had parted ways, but I had not seen him recently since the wedding, at which he had presented a demure and withdrawn countenance quite out of keeping with his usual demeanor. Even Mary, who was not overly enamoured with Holmes, noted and remarked upon it, but Holmes himself would not be drawn into conversation and had excused himself at an early stage of the proceedings following the ceremony itself.

Lestrade had kept me abreast of Holmes' activities however, often in the process of engaging me in investigations in my capacity as consulting medic; though my path never quite seemed to cross that of my former companion, until I began to feel that perhaps Holmes was deliberately avoiding me.

Thus it was that there seemed nothing out of the ordinary about Lestrade's visit that evening. I waved him to the chair opposite my own, and invited him to sit down.

"Good evening, Lestrade; might I offer you a drink?" I inquired as we both sat. The Inspector shook his head gravely.

"I must decline, Doctor - my visit is not a social one, I'm afraid," he replied.

"Ah, I see. Then it is my professional services you require," I noted, setting down my cigar and reaching for my bag. Lestrade nodded.

"It's Mr Sherlock Holmes." There was something in his voice - concern, yes, but was that a note of warning also? I straightened up in my chair and raised an eyebrow. Lestrade shook his head, not meeting my gaze with his own. "It's - well, I think you'd best come see for yourself, Doctor," he sighed.

A chill settled over my heart and I rose to my feet. "Give me two minutes, Inspector, and I'll be right with you," I answered. Lestrade got to his feet also and nodded.

"I've a cab outside waiting," he said over his shoulder as he made for the door. I nodded, packing a few things I thought I should need, and then I ran up the stairs calling for Mary. She stepped out of the drawing room with a look of alarm upon her sweet face.

"Why John, whatever is the matter?" she asked. "Your face is quite pale!"

I took her slender white hands in mine and brought them to my lips, kissing them. "It's Holmes, dear one. I fear something terrible has happened to him. Lestrade is waiting for me."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "You must go to him," she nodded firmly. "I understand." Tilting her face up to mine, she kissed me gently then pushed me away. "Go to him," she urged me. "He needs you."

"I love you," I breathed, touching my hand briefly to hers once more before turning to run down the stairs, taking them two at a time in my haste. Snatching up my hat, I grabbed my bag and then followed the Inspector out to the waiting hansom at the curb. It pulled away smartly almost before I could be seated, and we sped on our way towards Baker Street.

Lestrade would not be drawn further on the topic of Holmes, only repeating that I must see for myself as the hansom clattered swiftly through the streets; after a while I resigned myself to silence and sat back against the worn black leather seat, pondering sombrely what could have happened to my former companion to occasion such a summons. But try as I might, nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greeted us as we alighted outside the steps of my former lodgings which I had shared with Holmes for so many years in our bachelorhood together.

The front door stood wide open, and my former landlady the redoubtable Mrs Hudson stood upon the doorstep, wringing her hands in a most wretched way and looking most piteous indeed as two uniformed bobbies looked on, clearly ill at ease.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, Doctor Watson!" she wailed as I stepped forward, and she threw herself at me, sobbing. "If only you had not left him, I know this would not have happened! He has not been the same since you left - oh, it is all so terrible, ghastly!"

I stared down at her, bracing her with my hands. "Mrs Hudson, please calm yourself! What has happened?"

She only shook her head and sobbed harder. I stared at Lestrade, who seemed as discomforted as I. He gestured to one of the bobbies, who came down the steps and gently assisted me in disentangling myself from the hysterical woman's grasp. Then I raced up the stairs, dreading what I was to find.

The door to Holmes' room stood open. Pushing forward, I pulled off my hat and then stopped upon the threshold, arrested by the sight before me.

Clarky was kneeling beside the still form of Holmes, who lay supine upon the floor. He was clad only in a pair of trousers and his tattered old dressing gown. Clarky held one of Holmes' hands in his own, staring down at him with an expression of confusion upon his face. He looked up at me, and his expression changed to one of relief.

"Mrs Hudson found him like this, sir," he explained as I dropped my bag and fell to my knees beside Holmes. I took Holmes' hand from Clarky; it was cold and chill to touch. I stared down into Holmes' face. His eyes were closed, his soft black hair damp with sweat, his face white and wan, lips pale with a bluish tint; and I felt my heart go cold. Clarky held up two empty bottles; one had held absinthe, the other morphine. I shook my head slowly, _no, not this, not again..._

"Holmes..." I breathed, and laid a hand upon his chest. It was still; there was no sound or movement of breathing. "No," I shook my head, trying to deny the evidence of my own eyes. "Holmes. Holmes!" I felt at his wrist for a pulse with trembling fingers; finding none, I checked at his throat. Nothing.

"Sir?" asked Clarky, and then he shook my shoulder. "Sir, are you alright? You've gone grey, sir!"

I heeded him not at all as I took hold of Holmes' shoulders, marvelling at how thin and fragile he felt through the tattered cloth of the dressing gown. I shook Holmes hard; his head lolled, bonelessly, his body a dead weight in my hands.

"Holmes! Damn you Holmes, Wake up!" I cried. Clarky pulled at my shoulder, and I shook him off roughly. "Damn it, Holmes - _Sherlock_! Open your eyes, for the love of God!"

"Sir, sir!" protested Clarky. "Easy, sir..."

"_Holmes!_" I screamed, and then I cradled him against me, his body limp and cold. I felt again for the pulse at his throat, but still could feel nothing; I pressed my face against his lips, but felt no ghost of breath. I was dimly aware that Lestrade had entered the room and that both he and Clarky were watching me with horrified sympathy, but I cared nothing for their gaze as I rocked Holmes' body gently in my arms, my cheeks wet with tears.

Holmes was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

I stared down at the shrouded form on the autopsy table. The sheet that covered him was a virginal white, and somehow it seemed fitting that it should be thus. I stared at it for long minutes after Lestrade and Clarky had left me here alone with him. We had argued long and hard, Lestrade and I; he felt it was unwise that I should be here, but I was adamant that no-one else should perform this sad duty. I couldn't bear to think of another's hands touching him, despoiling his body uncaringly. The last hands to touch him should be those who cared for him most in life.

Steeling myself, I pulled back the sheet from his face and stared down at him. In death, Holmes' face was still and peaceful with a tranquility I had rarely seen in life. The lines of care seemed smoothed away from his brow. Gently, tenderly I stroked an errant strand of hair away from his face then cupped it lovingly with my hand. His skin was like ice against the warmth of my palm. Slowly, sadly, I stroked down the side of his face, then trailed a finger across the still lips, so pale and still, frozen without the breath of life to revive them. My hand trembled as I trailed the very tips of my fingers down his throat to his chest, dragging the sheet down slowly, and then I carefully folded the cloth back onto his chest to rest just below his sternum. I could feel his ribs beneath the cloth as I rested my hands there a moment; he was so terribly thin and frail. How long had this decline lasted? How long had he starved himself? I shook my head sadly.

"I am so sorry, Holmes," I said quietly to his still form. "I should have been there. I should have-"

I broke off and blinked hard as tears threatened to overwhelm me. My throat felt tight, and I swallowed with some difficulty. I struggled to contain myself, and only when I felt I had control of myself once more did I go on.

Gently I lifted each arm from beneath the shroud. Though cold, his limbs were curiously limp and pliant as I laid them over the cloth at his sides. I lifted one hand up in mine, marvelling at the long slender fingers that had seemed so nimble and graceful in happier times. Never again would they lift up the bow or pluck at the violin strings; the Stradivarius would sing no more.

Laying the hand back down at Holmes' side, I moved around the autopsy table slowly, studying my former companion as I walked. I paused by his head, staring down into that familiar face, and I threaded my fingers through his silky dark hair. Oh, how my heart ached that this was only possible at his death; never would I have dared touch him thus whilst he yet breathed. I pulled my hands free with slow reluctance, and then covered my mouth with them both as a paroxym of grief suddenly unmanned me. I doubled over as sobs wracked my body, stifled by my hands; hot, wet tears streaked down my cheeks and blurred my vision.

Long moments seemed to pass in this way as my body shook violently with the silent screams I dared not voice. I bit hard upon my knuckle in an effort to stifle them, and slowly I managed to regain control of myself. I straightened up with a tremulous sigh, then grimaced at the sharp coppery taste of blood in my mouth; my hand was bloodied from where my teeth had broken the skin, such was my anguish. I wrapped my hand with my handkerchief, then wiped away my tears with the sleeve of my shirt. After some few minutes in which I stood quietly, quieting my breathing, I felt ready to go on. Circling the table once more, I returned to his side, and with a trembling hand I lifted the scalpel.

I stared down at his face, steeling myself for what had to be done. Holmes appeared to be as one asleep, and my mind reeled at the prospect of what I was about to do. Laying my bandaged hand over his still heart, I leaned down and bestowed a last, chaste kiss on those motionless lips, praying I would feel them stir yet knowing I hoped in vain. Then straightening, I placed the tip of the razor-sharp blade against the soft white flesh of his heart.

I couldn't do it.

Try as I might, I could not force myself to drive the blade into the body of my dearest friend. I could not do it. Shaking my head, I bit my lip and prepared again to make the cut -

With a cry of anguish, I hurled the knife away from me.


	3. Chapter 3

The next 48 hours passed in a strange, almost fevered haze. Even now, my recollection of that time is confused and disordered. I dimly remember that it was Lestrade who led me away from Holmes' side where I believe I had collapsed, or was it Clarky? Holmes' brother Mycroft was there too, or so it seems to me now. I may have swooned. My clearest recollection from that terrible time was of opening my eyes to find my dearest Mary leaning over me, my face wet with her tears,the sting of brandy upon my lips as Mycroft lifted away a small flask.

I fear I was not much use to man nor beast at that moment; it was Mycroft who took charge. He had come to claim the body of Sherlock, who was to be buried within the family vault in Brompton Cemetery. He had refused to allow any further examination of his brother's body, and indeed the coroner had expressed himself satisfied that Holmes' death could be entirely attributed to the fatal mixture of morphine and absinthe. Cause of death was recorded as accidental overdose, and the coroner expressed his personal opinion that the inquest would likely record a verdict of death by misadventure.

Mary took me home in a hansom, and I passed the journey in silence. Though Mary tended to me most gently and tenderly, in truth I felt numb to my very soul; it were as though a part of me had died with Holmes - and perhaps it had. It did not seem possible that life could go on without Sherlock Holmes in it; and yet, that was the prospect before me - an eternity of a life without him. How could I bear it? Surely I should go mad at the very thought.

And yet... and yet, I did not. Somehow, that terrible night passed, and the day that followed. Idid not go mad; I simply drifted, lost in some strange limbo of grief. Mary dressed me, led me to the drawing room, sat me down. She placed my pipe in my hand but it simply dangled from my fingers, a useless thing that did not give me comfort. She placed food before me that I cold not eat; cups of tea that grew cold, undrunk. My mouth tasted of ashes, and I wanted nothing. Even tears seemed beyond me. That evening, she led me back to our bedroom and undressed me before laying me down in our bed. She entreated me with soft words and loving kisses, but I could not return her love. It was not her arms I yearned to feel around me;it was not her lips I longed to kiss.

Eventually she turned away from me and cried herself softly to sleep. My eyes were dry however; I had no more tears left in me.

The day of the funeral dawned, cool and grey. London herself seemed covered over in a grey pall of mourning as a cold rain fell. Mary dressed me in black, she herself also in full mourning with a veil that hid her ashen face. We walked out to the carriage in silence.

I had never seen the church of Holy Trinity so packed as it was that day. The casket lay upon a catafalque shrouded in black silk with a simple wreath of white roses upon it. It seemed the entire police force of the City of London had turned out to honour Holmes; I exchanged nods of greeting with Lestrade, Gregson and Hopkins. Clarky had buried his nose in a handkerchief but bowed his head as I passed him, his eyes redrimmed.

Mycroft Holmes waved me over to the front pew, I would have demurred, but he stepped forward and took me by the elbow. "Come, doctor; your place should be here. Let my brother have his Boswell right to the finish."

I choked then, and would have pulled away but for the feel of so many eyes upon me. Mary pushed me gently towards the pew then slipped quietly into the one behind.

I stared at the shrouded coffin. _I failed you_, I told it silently. _As your doctor, and as your friend._ Bitterly I wished I could exchange places with Holmes; it was not right that I should stand here, alive and breathing, in place of him. I was only peripherally aware of the service beginning; I could not take my eyes from the casket. I rose when others rose, sat when they sat, but I could not have told you what hymns were sung or what was said. All I could see was that black wooden box that contained the mortal remains of the one person who had meant the world to me, and I could not stop thinking on how I had never told him.

The church seemed unbearably hot and stifling. The voices all around me became a cacophony of sound. I was dimly aware of a steadying hand under my elbow, other hands that caught me as my vision greyed and I swayed. Voices, concerned faces that swum in and out of my gaze-

"Is he alright?" "I think he's going to faint-" "John,you've gone grey!" "Stand back, give him some air-" "Brandy, has anyone got some - ah, Lestrade, there's a good chap-" "Good lord, catch him, he's going!" "John!"

And then. mercifully, I knew no more.


	4. Chapter 4

Cold. He was cold. His eyes slowly opened, drowsily, blinking in the dark.

Dark. Why was it dark?

He tried to remember... he'd... what? He couldn't remember. What had he been doing?

Dreams. There had been dreams. Some beautiful, some terrible... He didn't want to remember the dreams. The voices whispering in the dark, whispering of dead things, things best forgotten.

There had been a voice. A loved voice. Whose? He couldn't recall. He _had_ to remember. It was important.

_John._

John?

_John._ Yes.

He raised his hand to his face slowly and it brushed smooth satin that covered something hard. He blinked in the darkness.

Dark. Something hard in front of him. He was lying on his back; there was soft, cushioned silk beneath him, satin covering something hard above him, only a few inches above his face.

_Coffin._

_I've been buried alive._

He panicked then, screaming desperately as his fingers tore at the smooth fabric above him, twisting from side to side - kicking at the sides, striking them with his arms, hammering at the underside of the coffin lid with his fists, head tossing wildly as he screamed and screamed and screamed in the dark, the close, stifling, choking dark _oh let me out, dear God let me out let me OUT LET ME OUT!_

He screamed until there were no more words, only raw terror and fear, until he was hoarse. His voice fell silent, hearing nothing but his own terrified breathing, panting harshly with panic. His heart was racing with the surge of fear-fueled adrenaline. He could hear a faint, frantic whimpering sound, and realised with a surge of shame that it was he, himself, who was making that pitiful, weak noise.

This would not do. He was using up what little valuable air there must be left to him. With an effort of will he slowed his breathing, working upon bringing his heart back to a more steady beat. There had to be a way out of this predicament.

"Think, I must _think,_" he ordered himself. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to calmness. _I must not surrender to emotion. I must remain calm. Rational. Logical._ Drawing a deep breath, he lifted his hands again, but this time instead of tearing at the shredded remains of silk that brushed against his face he searched the wooden surface carefully with his hands. He felt up as far as he could and all around the edges but could find no gap or catch to release himself from within.

Then he began to carefully tap the coffin lid, listening carefully to the hollow sound. Hollow, not a dull thud. _Not buried underground then. A tomb. Vault?_

This was beginning to look hopeful; without six feet of soil above him, there was a very good possibility he may yet get out of this alive.

He wiggled around a bit in the coffin, rolling over upon his side and managing with some difficulty to draw his long legs up until his knees pressed painfully hard upon his chest. Then with some wrenching, effort and sheer brute force he managed to twist himself round until he lay on his back once more and his shins were braced against the lid.

He drew a slow, tremulous breath, the sweat rolling from his face and drenching his shirt. He lay there in that cramped position for perhaps a minute or two, and then he threw his full strength into a mighty upwards thrust against the lid, his muscles straining against the resisting object. He threw his head backwards, putting everything he had into one last, superhuman effort.

With a protesting creak then a series of snaps and cracks,the coffin lid gave way a little. Only a little -but it was enough to spur him on. Rolling over with difficulty, he levered his arms and legs beneath him and pressed his back against the hard wood. He marshalled his strength for another try.

He braced himself, then thrust backwards, forcing his back against the wood. His arms and legs shook with the strain and he screamed out his frustration and desperation as he threw every last scrap of energy into this desperate attempt for freedom. With a sharp crack, the lid suddenly gave way, and he reeled backwards as the resistance against his back was suddenly gone. He sprawled backwards, his shoulders striking the bottom of the coffin as he thrust the freed lid to the side and away from him.

He lay there for some moments, chest heaving as he gratefully gasped in lungfuls of refreshing, cool air. With shaking hands he felt for the collar at his throat; it was uncomfortably tight. He ripped it loose, and the cravat too, then thankfully drew in deep breaths. He'd made it. He was out. The simple act of breathing had never felt so good; he even laughed a little in relief. Then he opened his eyes again and took a good look round.

He was in a small crypt, with four other coffins here beside his own. Two were laid upon the floor, as his had been, whilst one smaller coffin lay athwart the others on the floor and the fourth was stood up on end, leaning against the far wall. The chamber was lit by faint light through a small window in the wooden door. The floor was thick with dust which had been disturbed recently; the marks of several pairs of feet, and scuff marks where the coffin against the far wall had been moved to make way for his own. From the looks of the light filtering in wanly, it was dusk, the sun setting slowly.

He levered himself up out of the coffin, and made his way over to the door. No handle upon this side - why would one be needed, after all? - but his questing fingers soon found a small keyhole. He became aware of a throbbing pain in his fingers, and held them up to the scant golden light; his fingers were torn and bloody, fingernails broken and ripped from his earlier frantic scrabbling against the coffin lid. He shrugged; he'd had worse in the past. Though granted nothing that had ever led him to such straits as these, admittedly.

He felt carefully in his pockets; nothing. Not even a fluff of lint. He stared at the door, pondering. How best to effect his escape? He needed a tool; something to pick the lock with. Glancing around the chamber, his eyes lit upon the coffins. He walked over to them, and kicked thoughtfully at the nearest one. The wood was dry and friable. A possibility...

He methodically began kicking at the head of the coffin until the wood gave way, and then steeling himself he thrust his hand in to rip out handfuls of silk lining until his fingers touched something. Dry old leather over a smooth curved surface, strands of rotting hair falling away at his touch. A skull. Shuddering slightly, he drew his fingers back before steeling himself and reaching in once more.

Nothing. This one must have been a man. He turned to the next coffin.

This one was of more recent manufacture, the wood a little firmer. It took longer, more effort to shatter the end with his kicks, and the light was fading fast. He had to hurry; he could not bear the thought of remaining here with the dead for a full night, and had little hopes any screams for help would be heard or headed. The wood finally gave way, and with hands that shook only a little, he felt around for the head of the occupant.

Ah, good - this one had been a woman. In the remains of her silken tresses he found what he sought - a small handful of hairpins.

"Do excuse me, madam, but I believe I have more need of these than you," he apologised dryly.

As the light died, he set to work picking the lock of the door.

It was colder now. He had no money for a hansom, and Baker Street seemed so very far away. He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking; he had no pocket watch. The wind blew chill through his thin frock-coat; he'd been dressed for the grave, not a long walk through wintry November streets. He thrust his bloodied hands deep into his pockets, bowed his head against the wind, and carried on walking. One foot in front of the other, each step carrying him closer to home.

He paused briefly by the entrance to Sloane Square station, haunting the shuttered gate for a little while to warm himself from the cold. A discarded newspaper rustled by his feet; he glanced down at it, and then suddenly stooped to snatch it up, smoothing it out between his hands so he could properly read the headline. "Sherlock Holmes found dead." His hands beginning to tremble, he sank down to the cold hard pavement, back against the trellis gate as he began to read. _Found dead... death confirmed by his friend Dr John Watson MD... funeral at Holy Trinity. Laid to rest in the family crypt... eulogy read by former colleagues at Scotland Yard... tributes paid to London's greatest consulting detective..._ He snorted. "London's _only_ consulting detective!" _Survived by his brother Mycroft Holmes... concerns for Dr Watson who collapsed at the funeral... _"Watson..."

He balled up the paper and threw it away from him. Dead. They all thought he was dead.

After a while, he rose to his feet, flipped up the collar of his jacket against the cold, then turned to go but paused. He looked back at the crumpled ball of newspaper, then picked it up again. Carefully smoothing it out with his fingers, he folded it neatly and tucked it into his pocket before resuming the slow, steady walk back to Baker Street and home.


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade scratched his head. He was puzzled. He didn't like being puzzled. He liked facts, and he liked those facts to make sense.

None of this made any sense at all.

"Let me go over this again," he said, licking his finger and going back over the notes in his little pocket book. "Mr Holmes died on Wednesday evening. He was confirmed dead at the scene by Dr Watson, and was buried yesterday at 11am. Some time last night, he somehow rose from the dead, broke open his coffin, managed to somehow unlock the door to the family crypt, and disappear."

"That's right, sir," said the constable nervously.

"And someone - or some_thing_ - smashed open the heads of two coffins which were also in the crypt."

The constable nodded, miserably. Lestrade threw his notebook to the ground and swore. "I don't bloody believe it. Are you trying to tell me that there's an zombie Sherlock Holmes walking around London looking for the heads of corpses to munch on, constable? I suppose next you're going to tell me he flew over the wall, too?"

"The gates _were_ locked, sir," pointed out the constable. Lestrade threw his hands up in disgust, turned on his heel and walked away.

"I don't bloody believe it!" he repeated loudly to no-one in particular. The other bobbies looked at each other nervously, then back at the open door to the Holmes family crypt. No-one seemed particularly keen to get any closer to it than was absolutely necessary.

Lestrade turned to Clark. "The press better not be onto this yet," he warned with a growl.

"Not yet, sir," Clark replied. "We've had a couple of reports from people claiming they saw someone matching Mr Holmes' description late last night near Sloane Square."

Lestrade looked back at the open crypt. "D'you suppose Dr Watson was wrong?" he wondered aloud.

"Wrong, sir?"

"What if he wasn't dead?"

"Not dead... but sir, Dr Watson is-"

"There was that Blackwood case," Lestrade reminded him.

"Ah. Yes. That," conceded Clark.

They both turned to stare at the crypt. Clark shook his head slowly. "Poor bloody bugger," he said.

Lestrade wasn't sure if he meant Holmes or Watson, but nodded agreement. "Best send someone up to Baker Street then. Just in case."

Clark nodded. "On it, sir."


	6. Chapter 6

"'E's wakin' up!"

"Move it then - g'warn, shift your arse, give 'im space-"

"Mr 'olmes? Can you 'ere me, sir?"

He blinked slowly. He was curled on his side; his head was pillowed by someone's jacket, and a sea of small, grubby faces swam slowly into view. He was conscious of being seriously chilled and felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't stop shivering.

"Mr 'olmes sir?" He looked up, focussing his eyes with difficulty. The face seemed familiar; a youth of about 15, straw-coloured hair and hazel eyes who regarded him with a concern far beyond his tender years. Wiggins.

He must have spoken aloud, for Wiggin's face split into a wide, relieved grin. "He's OK, lads!" he announced. "Cor blimey, sir, you gave us a right fright an' all. All the newspapers sayin' you was dead an' buried down Brompton way, an' then we come across you lookin' pretty damn dead 'ere in this alley!"

"Not dead," he managed, between shivers. "Sleeping. Got to get home."

"Not like that you ain't, sir," replied Wiggins, the other boys nodding agreement. "You look like you ain't eaten in a week, an' you're weaker n'a day old kitten. We got to get some food into you an' get ya somewhere warm."

He managed with some difficulty to sit up, pulling his jacket tighter about his thin body and mustering what little dignity he could. "I can assure you, Wiggins, I will be quite alright. I simply need to get back to Baker Street, and then I will be fine."

Wiggins cocked an eyebrow at him. "Go on then," he challenged. "Stand up. I bet you can't."

"I most certainly _can!_" he snapped back. He struggled to his feet. "See, I'm fine, I can-" His vision clouded and there was a roaring sound in his ears. His knees buckled beneath him and he fell, but then there were small, slender hands all around him, lifting him up, supporting him. Young voices murmured reassurances as he moaned.

"Tol' ya," remarked Wiggins, but his voice was gentle. "We'll get you 'ome, Mr 'olmes. Don't you worry. Grub first, then Baker Street."

Holmes nodded, grateful for the support of his Baker Street Irregulars. Never had he been more grateful for their loyalty and help now, when he was most vulnerable and in need.

He didn't ask them where they found the food; stolen, most likely. He sat on the low step, grateful for the coat they had somehow "acquired" - by similar means, he supposed; it was two sizes too large for him, but it was thick and warm, and he was very grateful for it, and for the tattered gloves that enclosed his bloodstained and dirty hands. He ate the food slowly and carefully; he hadn't eaten in far too long, and though he had a very strong urge to just wolf it down, he made himself take small bites for the sake of his malnourished stomach. Even so, it was gone all too soon. He licked the grease from his fingers slowly, savouring every last scrap until his fingers were moderately clean. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the woolen glove catching on the stubbly week's worth of beard.

He looked around the small crowd of expectant faces, and mused that he probably looked much as they did now; poorly-fitting clothes, dirty faces, ragged unkempt hair. He ran a hand through his own unruly thatch of black locks, and favoured them with a small smile. "I am profoundly grateful to you all," he said quietly. "I feel much more myself, though I fear I may not look it."

He was answered by smiles. "You look like one of us now, sir," remarked Wiggins, and the others nodded. "D'you think you can stand?"

"I think so," replied Holmes cautiously. He held out his hands and with the help of the street boys, managed to stand up. There was a momentary dizziness, but he stood still until it had passed, then nodded. "I think I can manage now. How far is it to Baker Street from here?"

"I could run it in fifteen minutes, I reckon," answered Wiggins. "It'll take you longer though - long legs or no."

Holmes nodded. "I fear you may be right," he sighed. "Would one of you lads be so kind as to perhaps run on ahead and let Mrs Hudson know I am coming?"

The lads looked at one another. "The old bird'll pitch a fit!" predicted Wiggins, and the younger ones nodded. Wiggins jerked a thumb at a tousled-headed boy in a dark blue jacket. "Jack, you're fastest - go and let 'er know we're comin'." Jack nodded, threw his hand up in a rough approximation of a salute in Holmes' direction, and sprinted off. The rest of the boys clustered around Holmes, and he leaned his arms on two of them whilst the rest supported him encouragingly. They slowly started making the long trek to Baker Street.

Holmes thought to himself longingly of tea, fresh bread, the comfort of his pipe - and a long, hot bath followed by sleep in his own bed, between sweetly-smelling clean linen sheets beneath the thick, soft eiderdown quilt.

He had no way of telling how long it had taken them to reach Baker Street. They had drawn curious glances as they made their slow way there; a tall skinny tramp in an oversized coat surrounded by a crowd of street urchins. They had had to stop a few times when weakness overcame Holmes and he had to rest for a while. Each time it happened, the boys would cluster around him protectively, glaring at passersby; Wiggins stood by his side, one hand resting reassuringly upon Holmes' shoulder. When he had recovered himself sufficiently, he would slowly rise to his feet and they would continue on their way.

He was exhausted by the time they reached Baker Street, and had to pause for a moment by the gate, leaning upon the railings for support whilst he caught his breath. Then with Wiggins by his side and the others crowding in close behind, he steadily mounted the steps and rang the bell.

There was silence for a while, and then he could hear the steady small footsteps of Mrs Hudson as she approached. The door opened, and she peered out, her face pale.

"What d'you want?" she snapped, glaring at them. "More beggars with tall tales, I've no doubt. Be off with you all now, and have respect for decent folks! Can't you see this is a house in mourning?"

He recoiled slightly and stared up at her. "Mrs Hudson, please - don't you recognise me?"

She stared down at him, disconcerted by the polite, educated tones of the tramp who stood before her, face grubby, hair untidy and dishevelled. No... it couldn't be... could it? The boy had said - but she hadn't believed -

"Mr Holmes?" she whispered, "Is it really you?"

He nodded.

She fainted.

"Well, bugger," remarked Wiggins.


	7. Chapter 7

It was quite some time before I began to return to awareness. I remember nothing of being carried from the church, or of the journey back home; it seemed I drifted in and out of delerium for a time, in which waking was worse pain than the dreams in which the past three days had been but a terrible nightmare, and my dearest love was yet alive and well. In dreams I managed to convince myself that it had all been a mistake; that Holmes had simply fallen asleep upon the tigerskin rug as he had so often done before. In dreams, I did not cradle his lifeless form, begging for death to take me too; I did not stand over his body in the morgue with the blade in my hand.

And yet in waking moments, it all came flooding back to me in terribly clear fashion; _there_ was the body, _there _was the knife, _there _was the coffin, the open crypt ready to receive his mortal remains alongside those of deceased relatives that had gone before him; and I wept at such cruel pain and begged to be allowed to return to the peace of my dreams. I may have been feverish.

I think that eventually Mary called a doctor to see me; certainly I remember the prick of a needle in my arm, and then the longest time in which I must have slept without dreaming at all.

It was two days after the funeral that Mary came to me as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I think I had lain there for some time after waking, not moving. I remembered how often Holmes had lain thus in one of his black moods, and I thought that perhaps I now understood a little of what he must have felt during those dark times. Though the thin winter sun streamed through the window, brightening the room, it seemed as though everything were grey. I had no energy or inclination to move; even thinking seemed to require an effort I was unable, or unwilling to contemplate. I merely lay there, mute and existing. It were as though my heart had been removed and all that was left was this numb, empty space. I could not have told you what time or even what day it was. Nothing seemed to matter to me any more; my mouth tasted of ashes, and a great, hopeless despondency lay upon me.

Gradually I became aware that Mary stood by my side and had been calling my name gently for some time. I blinked, stirred, and turned my eyes upon her.

"John, the inspector is here to see you," she repeated quietly.

"I will see no-one." I turned my face away, listlessly.

"John, it is important. It's about Mr Ho-"

"Don't say it!" I cried. "Mary, if you love me then I pray, don't speak his name!" The mere mention of him was like a physical pain through me, and to my shame I found I was weeping again.

"John, you must listen! You have to hear what he has to say!"

"Go away, leave me! I can't bear it!" I wept, turning away; but Mary leaned down and shook me roughly by the shoulders.

"John, he's _alive!_ Sherlock is _alive!_"

I stared at her, aghast. "Dear god. Mary, how could you be so cruel? What mischief is this?" I shrank away from her touch. "No, don't touch me! I saw him with my own eyes, he is _dead_, Mary, _dead,_ and he is not coming back!" My voice had rose to a shout, and as I sat up and pushed myself further away from her I could hear footsteps in the hall outside the door. I glared at Lestrade as he paused in the doorway, Clark but a step behind him, and I knew that the maid also lingered there - listening in appalled fascination. I turned my anger upon Lestrade, ignoring my wife's stricken face.

"Lestrade, what is the meaning of this? How dare you, sir, come into my home and make such ridiculous claims? How _dare_ you?"

"Doctor, please, calm yourself-"

I pushed myself from the bed and reached for my dressing gown and cane. I advanced towards the inspector, brandishing the cane at him. "Sherlock Holmes is dead. I certified his death myself!"

"Easy now, sir. Put the stick down please; let's take this all calmly, shall we?" said Lestrade soothingly. "I know you've had a terrible shock and the past few days have been very trying on you. But please believe me when I tell you it's the truth. Mr Sherlock Holmes is alive and well-"

"Well, not exactly well, sir," interjected Clarky; Lestrade shot him a warning glare.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes is alive and -" he glared again at Clarky, "And is as well as can be expected under the circumstances. He is at Baker Street now at this present moment, having arrived there late yesterday evening, from what Mrs Hudson has told us."

I stared from Lestrade to Clarky, and then to my wife. Shakily I sank down onto the edge of the bed.

"It's not true," I whispered. "This is all a horrible fever dream. It can't be true." I held my hand out to Mary. "Please tell me this is all a dream..."

She took her my hand between her own and squeezed it reassuringly. "What the inspector says is true, John. He really is alive. Isn't it wonderful?" Her voice held a note of hope. I stared up at her, aghast.

"But then - but then -" I felt the blood drain from my face and clutched at my head in horror. "Oh dear god. What have I done?"

"John?" Mary's voice quavered with confusion; bewildered, she turned wordlessly to Lestrade and Clarky, looking for an explanation, but in their eyes I could see they understood.

"I buried him alive," I whispered.


	8. Chapter 8

The brougham drew to a halt outside the familiar steps of 221b Baker Street. Holding Mary's hand in mine, I stared up at the windows, but from the outside there was no clue as to whether my old companion's room was inhabited or as silent and empty as that fateful night after they bore his body away.

How could I have been so mistaken? There had been no breath of life within him, no pulse; I had been certain of that - both there, and later at the morgue. Was it possible that the action of the morphine and absinthe had somehow acted not to still that great heart forever, but to slow it, suppressing breathing until I could not detect either? I could not see how he could survive such a thing, and yet -

I glanced across at Lestrade and Clarky, who nodded reassuringly to me. Lestrade opened the door and held it open for me, and Mary patted my hand gently. I climbed down from the carriage with a heavy heart, hopeful and yet full of dread. Drawing in a deep breath, I steeled myself then strode up the broad steps to the front door and rang the bell.

Light, quick footsteps pattered down the stairs within, and then the door was flung open and Mrs Hudson threw herself into my arms. "Oh, Dr Watson, it is a miracle! I'm so glad you came - he's been asking for you!" She tugged at my arm eagerly; such a change from last I had seen her as she beamed joyfully at me. "Oh, it is indeed such a marvellous miracle!"

I looked back at my wife and the two officers; Lestrade gestured towards me as if to say, 'after you,' and Mary was smiling encouragement. Turning back, I followed the landlady, leaning heavily upon my cane.

The strains of a Mozart symphony played on a violin echoed down the hallway, and my heart tightened within my chest, my throat suddenly constricted and my eyes burning hotly with unshed tears. The ghostly refrain seemed to beckon me on; it was one of my favourite pieces. It died away as I reached the top; Mrs Hudson stood to one side and gestured me towards the open door to Holmes' room. I approached on leaden feet until I reached the threshold. Removing my hat and letting both hat and cane fall from suddenly-nerveless fingers, I stared into the room.

Holmes lay upon the couch, cradling his beloved Stradivarius in his arms. His head rested upon soft pillows, his hair scattered across the white cotton like black silk. He was clad in his favourite old tatty dressing gown, and the big eiderdown quilt from his bed was tucked about his thin frame. His eyes were closed, his face pale but with a faint contented smile. As I stared, devouring the sight of him, he turned his face towards me and those beautiful soft brown eyes opened and the smile deepened.

"John," he murmured, and held out a slender white hand towards me, his fingertips raw with recent wounds, nails broken and torn. I cried out softly and ran to him, falling to my knees at his side and cradling his poor hand in both of mine, drawing his fingers to my lips and kissing them, wetting them with my tears. "John, John," he murmured, stroking my hair gently with his free hand. "Shhh, shhh, it's alright, everything's going to be alright." I shook my head, not relinquishing the hold upon his hand, my body wracked with sobs.

"John, look at me. Please." A note of distress crept into his weak voice, and it was this which made me look up at last. He stared down at me, his brow furrowed with concern. "I don't understand... John, you look terrible. What is wrong?"

I gaped at him. Could it be possible that he was completely ignorant of the role I had played in his terrible ordeal? That the ragged state of the fingertips I still cradled in my hand was entirely my fault?

"Holmes... how much do you remember of what happened to you?"

He frowned thoughtfully, his hand stilling and falling back to lie upon the coverlet. "Fragments," he admitted. "I remember feeling so incredibly tired..." His voice tailed off. After a moment, he continued slowly, his gaze unfocused as he attempted to dredge up half-formed memories of drug-addled dreams, separating hallucination from truth. "I knew I'd taken too much when I felt my heart slowing. I heard Mrs Hudson knock and then enter. She screamed, and then she presumably called the police. I was aware of someone taking my hand, and then nothing... hallucinations, perhaps. The mind can invent the most fantastical dreams when deprived of sight and touch, Watson; I believe you yourself told me thus once." He glanced at me and smiled that brief, quirky smile of his before continuing. "I remember nothing more, really, until I awoke inside my coffin within the family crypt."

He shuddered then, and his face turned a little grey. His voice fell as he slowly continued. "I don't mind admitting, dear fellow, that I was perhaps a little hysterical for some minutes there. It's a nasty feeling, to wake up in one's grave, Watson." He shuddered then, and fell silent, brooding no doubt upon his misadventure.

He had no idea that I was the author of his misfortune in that regard. I drew a deep breath and lowered my gaze, uncertain as to how to proceed. Lestrade, Mary and Clarky had respectfully remained outside the room, but if I said nothing they would know. And sooner or later Holmes himself would know, or at least guess-

"Watson."

I glanced up, and saw from his face that he knew - or at least, had guessed. My face had once again betrayed me.

"I forgive you," he said quietly. "You could not have known."

My lips twisted into a bitter smile. "'No girl wants to marry a doctor who can't tell if a man's dead or not.' Your words to me, the Blackwood case. Remember?"

He sat up at that. "Watson, my dear chap, I didn't mean-"

I dropped his hand and turned away. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I hugged them with my arms and rested my chin upon them. "Doesn't matter what you meant, does it? They're thinking it. They're all thinking it; what good's a doctor who can't tell if a man's dead or not. Isn't that right, Inspector?" I called out, raising my voice so that the eavesdroppers in the hall could hear. I heard a muffled sob; Mary or Mrs Hudson, I couldn't tell.

"Watson."

I pressed my forehead to my knees and closed my eyes.

"John."

"I failed you, when you needed me the most," I whispered. "How can you bear to look at me after what I've done to you?"

"How can I bear not to?" he whispered.

I lifted my head and stared at him.

"What use is my life without someone to share it?"

Behind me, I heard the door being gently closed but paid it no heed. I could barely breathe for the sudden feeling of hope that sprang forth within my chest. I opened my mouth to speak, but a single finger laid lightly upon my lips, stilling my tongue. He raised an eyebrow at me before continuing. "Was it not Socrates who said, 'The unexamined life is not worth living'? John, if this experience has taught me nothing, at the least it has taught me this: not only am I quite lost without my Boswell, I find that without him the prospect of life is dull, tedious and unendurable."

I stared at him wordlessly; there was something strange about the look in his eyes. With a start, I realised what it was: vulnerability. Holmes was deliberately laying his heart bare before me.

I turned to him and lifted my hands to that familiar, well-loved face, and gently I kissed the soft warm lips.

~~~ _FIN_ ~~~


End file.
